People Help The People
by BW1819
Summary: She can't even keep her teeth from chattering, and the tips of her ears are turning blue. "We don't need your pity," she mumbles. "I am showing you no pity Katniss, just kindness and I'm sorry. Can I please get you inside before you get hypothermia?" Modern exploration of a stubborn and homeless Katniss... and the baker's boy: Peeta. AU (Peeta's POV)
1. Chapter 1

Quite honestly, I have been working on this for months. I started writing in September of '13 and it has spiraled into my obsession. I love writing this and have put alot of effort in. This will be regularly updated.

Enjoy.

(Peeta's POV)

* * *

I was the nice kid. The boy sitting with his mother's grandmother in the nursing home was always me. Holding her hand, listening to her stories- my mother didn't visit as much as I did.

When did I change?

She died just shy of my sixteenth birthday; her funeral was held on that day.

What I missed the most about her was just being with her. She taught me patience and love, but kindness more than anything. If she were still alive, she would not approve of how I have treated others. So, I'm taking the initiative of changing that.

My best friend and neighbor, Hersh, says I'm bitter of rejection, which isn't true. I technically never was rejected, because I never spoke up to the girl I have liked since kindergarten.

But once, she noticed me. My mother had just finished screaming at her for digging in our garbage cans in the alley behind the bakery when she noticed me aglow with the lights of the oven.

She couldn't have known me well. I stuck with the rich kids that lived on my side of town, so how could she? But I watched as her knees buckled and she slid down the tree trunk to its roots. Her brown braid frazzled and her grey eyes distanced and empty. She looked too sick and weak and tired to get up. Above all, she was starving.

In my fourteen-year-old brain, I knew she would die if I didn't help.

So I did. I stood in the middle of the street on that damp spring morning and threw her two slightly burnt loaves of bread. The heat of the bread branded her skin as she put the loaves under her shirt, but she just crossed her arms around the bread and didn't let go, clinging to the idea that that bread would carry her into the next day.

Four and a half years later, I can still feel the effect she had on me that day. I was her last hope.

* * *

I'm asking my dad for tomorrow off to paint the storefront. It's an extra chore for me, intentionally. But I love to paint and I am good at it and I need to earn my reputation back. As I'm twirling a wedding cake on a turntable, I frost different flowers while my parents deliberate. My father is putting loaves of bread out to rise for the night, while my mother has her hands in the register, counting the day's till.

"Just finish up that cake and sweep the floor," She explains tiredly. Her glasses rest on the bridge of her nose between her creased eyebrows, and her teeth gritting from the arthritis in her hands. "There is a can of paint in the garage, use that. Make sure it doesn't look like kid scribbles." She says, bitterly hinting back to when I was a toddler and would draw with crayons down the hallway walls.

No one really knows I paint beside my father. He winks at me knowingly, and I get back to frosting.

As I stand in the garage, my back arching as I look at the top shelf, my hands find the old can of paint hidden in the back. The label is faded beyond recognition. So it's no surprise when I pry off the lid and shake the can- the paint has separated to uselessness.

Irritated, I wipe my brow of the unusual late September sweat. This summer is the hottest it's ever been in 50 years, as says my dad. It shows on the street. As I walk toward the paint store, the A/C unit is buzzing loudly next door at the candy shop. Hersh smiles through the window, his brown hair sticking to his forehead.

I remember when I would walk down these streets and down at the lake, and people would just scowl. Made one mistake, and my reputation is shot. I had been the golden boy, baking bread, sitting by the window frosting cookies with the kids in our neighborhood.

Still, the sun shines; pulling the mercury in the thermometer outside their shop to 70° Fahrenheit and it is only 10:30 in the morning.

Three shops down, Indigo, the owner of the paint store scowls at me. The bell rings that is atop the door. I'm a regular.

"What can I do for you?" She speaks authoritatively as she steps forward, arms crossed, eyeing my old can of paint. But it's so much more. I know that even though it was years ago, I'm still mentally apologizing once again for what my friends did to her car. I have a new group of friends. Actually, I don't have many friends.

"I'm sorry, again. I was the driver; I didn't throw any of the eggs." She flares her nostrils and signals for me to continue. "I need a can of exterior white paint." I state. The woman, an outspoken 50-something-year-old woman, looks perplexed.

"White?" She doesn't believe it. "No orange or blue? You must be painting," she pauses, "The bakery storefront. Peeta, did you know that that paint started cracking before my husband's feet?"

I chuckle with her. She seems to forgive easy. However, she is right. It seems that white walls would fit in too well on the main street. The streets are depressing to walk down, and we are in the nice part of town. It seems with summer leaving and the changes of autumn approaching, everyone is trying to gear themselves for the winter grey. I think the street could use some color. "Indy, you're right. What do you think about painting the front a brighter color and a mural on the side? Give me a can of blue and green and orange and red…" She smiles widely and gets to work mixing the colors.

My hands get those weird indents from holding the handles of the cans, but eventually and after a few trips of carrying all the cans, and gathering my supplies, I have what I need. I look for inspiration of what to paint. Living in Upstate New York, trees are everywhere. They cover many of the canvases hidden in my room in hundreds of different shades of green. She is painted on some too. That's when I get the idea.

Starting from the bottom of the wall, I sit on the concrete, my khaki shorts keep riding up, revealing my bare legs to the burning cement. I ignore it, and loose myself into the paint, pulling and dabbing the brush in different directions to spread the scene.

The high sunset I paint shines over the pines and reflects onto the lake to the right-hand corner. Overlapping red with white, purple with pink, flowers start to bloom, bees buzz, and the wind rustles the leaves in the summer heat.

The hours pass quickly as the sun rises in the sky. A sheen of sweat covers my skin. Hersh grabs me a Gatorade from their fridge to keep me hydrated. But in the afternoon sometime, I stand to stretch my back, twisting and lifting my arms. But I do this weird hip twist and that's when I see it; a small crowd watching from afar as I paint this new world. Their palms connect as the small group claps at my half-finished work. I grin with pride, but she isn't there. I hope she will see it after it's done. It will look better when it is complete and her house is a few miles away.

These people may not be _her_, but they like what I am doing, and I don't let her absence bring me down.

The end product arrives two days later. The mural is beautiful. Prides rushes over me as I look at it complete. The many days I had spent at the bakery frosting and decorating and painting paid off. It's so vibrant that the surrounding walls almost reflect the scene, illuminating the colors onto the streets.

My father loves it, but my mother finds something missing- the name of the Bakery. At the top, invading the sunset, I curve letters with black paint, Mellark Bakery. She tells me it's good enough, at least it looks better than the cracking exterior from before.

Autumn slides in, turning the leaves into many different shades of warm colors and spilling them on the road. The atmosphere is bringing in more customers searching for warm pastries. Mom says it is the season, but Dad and I know it's the store's exterior.

Smoke billows from chimneys, leaving a thick bitter haze blanketing the buildings. Our cinnamon rolls are selling out before nine, like they always do around this time.

The homeless people are working hard to find somewhere to keep warm. Each winter they circulate the town for somewhere to migrate to. The group, our town and themselves have named 'the family', is made up of ten to fifteen people. So it is not a horrible burden when they start to sit at the side of the bakery. My Mom tries to shoo them away saying they are loitering and that they leave a bad impression for the bakery. It could be true, but these people need somewhere to go, and it would leave a worse impression of our family not helping them.

My father and I work late into the nights preparing warm hearty breads for the unfortunates, this sometimes their only meal.

We think people attract here because of the ovens and how their heat slightly warm the air behind the wall they are against. It is true. I remember missing my curfew on a spring night and my parents had locked me out as my punishment. I laid against that wall where it was warmer, still the coldest and worst night sleep of my life.

But one woman with the widest smile and the most missing teeth sits with me, savoring her warm sourdough bread trying to unstick it from the roof of her mouth. She reminds me of my grandmother, so I hold her wrinkly grimy hand and listen to her slurred stories.

"Son, did you paint this?" She motions next to her.

I nod meekly as I watch her breath turn into steam. "Yes ma'am I did." I squeeze her hand. "Do you like it?"

"Why certainly!" She exclaims. A look of contentment covering her face. "Do you want to know why we came here this winter?"

"It's warmer from the ovens?"

"Yes, it's warmer but not in the way you think. I'm not exactly sure what the rest of the family is thinking but I only sit here because, I look up, and it brings me hope. It's a warm growing feeling inside. What you and your father is doing, it's amazing, extraordinary. And I enjoy the bread. It warms me up!" She laughs and she is beaming, probably excited that there is someone to listen to her. "It is so kind what your family is doing for us. It's amazing, extraordinary. I can speak for all of us, we truly appreciate it." With that statement, it feels like my grandmother is giving me her approval once again.

This goes on for weeks, people making me feel good about myself, building my self-esteem from the low I was in after vandalizing Indigo's car.

It's the middle of October, the smell of pumpkin pies ribboning the air as a strong wind gusts. I'm sitting on the pavement with an older man named Cliff, who has been a part of the family occupying our sidewalk since the beginning. He is convincing me of a government conspiracy when two familiar bodies show up with backpacks and a leather jacket serving as a blanket.

She is sitting on the far end of the street, at the end farther from the homeless shelter bordering the seam than close. Her petite sister snuggles against her.

It's happening again. I'm sweating in the cold, my body debating against the temperature. I get dizzy and my head feels congested. It's such a beautiful mess happening in my mind seeing her. With that same beautiful mysterious face, I have seen so many times before. This is the first time I have seen her since graduation- almost 5 months ago. She always was poor, especially after her father died in a car wreck, but they were never homeless.

"The moon landing was staged… people didn't need to know… aliens." I only am catching a few words, but my attention is on her. The man stops talking to look where I was looking. He pats my leg to get my attention. "You were nice to us." He pauses and smirks with a mouthful of yellowed teeth when he sees Katniss in the distance. "Help her."

That's what I do. My hands are trembling as I put their batch of goods in the oven, almost smoldering my fingers on the racks. She needs my help, and as much as she doesn't want to admit it, she is hungry and she doesn't have a way to get food. Hersh would be so disappointed if he found out I was this close to talking to her and didn't jump on the opportunity. I have avoided and sidestepped her for many years. Why shouldn't I now?

_Because they need help._

I run up the stairs to my bedroom above the bakery and search for the cleanest sweatshirt to bring down. I grab my grey wrestling one from high school that's baggy on me and says my last name in dark bold letters on the back. I rummage through my sock drawer and grab two pairs of white ones, and the comforter off my bed.

Pacing around the vacant bakery floor, I stare at the ever-growing pile of goodies sitting on the large table in the middle of the kitchen. I'm mentally preparing a conversation as I am warming the milk for their hot chocolate, when the oven dings. I would have never thought that today, I would talk to Katniss Everdeen, and I doubt she is thinking the same for me too.

Using my oven mitts, I pull the pans out. Unlike the loaves I gave her before, they turn out perfect. Nothing blackened from the oven, and nothing to deserve a slap from my mother. They are display item worthy.

I check my reflection in one of the baking sheets as my brother Rye walks down the stairs, his hair disheveled. He is a 'No long term relationships' kind of guy.

"Baby brother, it's late," he yawns as he runs a hand through his hair. "Were you looking at your reflection? Got a date? Realized you got your good looks from me?" Throwing his head back in mock laughter, he struts around the bottom step putting a show on for me, and making a complete foul of his self.

If I told him what I was about to do, he would do anything in his power to sabotage my chance with Katniss.

He thinks she's cute too. I can't blame him.

Just do what's easiest. I tell myself. Tell him you were making bread. That's it. Be nice. If I start an argument, it's going to make the time between now and talking to her, longer.

"Thought I had something in my teeth, don't get too excited."

He scoffs and makes his way up the stairs to get back to his room.

I wait to grab everything. I hold the bell at the top of the door too because it's loud and I don't want to wake my parents whose bedroom is right above the front entrance. In about 12 strides, I will be face to face with the girl and her sister who has captured my heart for all these years.

_Don't freak out. You are only talking to the girl you have liked since kindergarten._ Prim will have my back.

She is sitting under the street light, the white cascading her face._ Here it goes._ I step into the perimeter of the light reflecting on the sidewalk, and breathe deep.

When her eyes look into mine, my heart feels like it's ready to break my rib cage to escape the pressure. It is too dark to see her facial expression so I base it off what I want to see. But now she looks like she wants to kill me.

_This is it._

I announce timidly, "I'm here to perform your welcoming ritual." Her face stays blank, and her eyes shift to the stuff in my hands. "Can you grab the mug out of my left hand?" My voice is shaking and she squints her eyes because she knows what I am doing, but grabs it anyways. "Be careful it's hot."

"Prim, Peeta brought you something to drink." It sounds like an angel has spoken when she says my name. Her voice is like a cello, its tone deep enough to be noticed but doesn't hide within the song. My ribs are breaking. I'm talking to her, and she knows my name.

"Is that hot chocolate?" Prim asks while raising her arms to stretch. She moves her hand to grasp the mug, but Katniss shoos it away.

"Prim, don't be impolite." Her voice is thick; magnificent at the least.

"It's fine and yes that mug is all hot chocolate and all yours." I say, looking toward Prim. Prim takes it questionably. Katniss just looks at me like I'm something extraneous to her.

"Thank you so much. I knew this was the right place to come Katniss." Prim replied.

"We can't accept this," Katniss counters. I don't understand. They need it.

"Why is this?" I ask, desperately trying to understand. But it hits me as Prim says the words signally the conversation we had in the spring, of the bread.

"Not again." Prim knows and now I know. The bread, all those years ago.

"Okay, then." I say. "Well I am leaving you the decision, Prim, and these two loaves of bread." I pause, just wanting to run away. "Keep it all. You owe me nothing more. Let me grab your mug, and I'll be back out." With that, I drop the bread in Prim's lap and leave Katniss with a puzzled blank expression. My steps are backwards as I walk to the bakery to grab Katniss' cup.

"We don't need your pity." Katniss mumbles loud enough for me to hear, as I am halfway to the bakery.

I defend myself as I go. "I am showing you no pity, just kindness." Footsteps follow me down the road, into the bakery and behind the counter. Prim puts both hands on the counter and shifts her weight forward.

"What?" I snap a little too defensively. She is so skinny, as if she hasn't seen three full meals since the beginning of the summer.

"I was going to say thank you, but I won't if I am going to argue with you." She says. The thing about Prim is that she has such an innocent exterior with the soft facial features and the blonde hair and blue eyes and on the inside; she has a fierce love for her sister and will do anything to make her better. Makes two of us. She is her own kind of beautiful that is different from Katniss. Her brown hair is still down in a braid and her eyes show the pain of a thousand men, but Primrose Everdeen is carefree, depending on her sister for everything. Instead, I'm depending on her. She was always the one who would lure Katniss to look at the cakes on display in the windows, or dragging her inside to get free cookies we would give out to the younger ones. She has been my wingman since she was in elementary. Now she is 14 and looks as starved as Katniss did at that age.

"What would we argue about?" I ask.

"I don't know, you sounded angry." She replies.

"I don't want to fight. I'm just frustrated. It's like there is no way to ever make her happy."

"I know what you mean, but really we need help. Help her. But don't make it obvious." She wraps her arm around my side and latches on. Her fingers and arm radiate the frigid air from sitting out in the cold. The tip of her nose is a deep red and I can hardly stand the idea that she has to go back out there. "Peeta! I can take the cup for you."

"Nah, I got it." But instead, I hand her the warm cup to have something to occupy her hands. We make our way back and I tell them goodnight.

As I walk past the alien guy and he gives me thumbs up, I can't help but feel horrible leaving two teenage girls on the sidewalk on a very windy night, while I sleep comfortably in my room. I couldn't help but notice how knotted Katniss' hair looked from the wind as she sat on the north facing side where my mural is. That's where the family has sat for a few weeks now.

See, the great thing about the bakery located on a corner is that we have two outward facing walls for publicity and for this time of year, the homeless to lean against. But on the opposing wall, there is an alley between the candy shop and our bakery. It is hardly wide enough to fit a small car through, but big enough for Hersh and me to let our imagination run on this tiny street. The wind isn't as harsh on this side, and actually that's where my bedroom window is. So I can keep an eye on them, and make sure they are safe, but also they can stay warm.

I hustle back with my hands in my pockets, then pull them out and start picking up their stuff.

"What do you think you are doing?" Katniss snaps, as she tugs on her bright orange backpack which is surprisingly heavy. I hand it back to her, because it is rude that I just grabbed her stuff.

"Sorry." I say timidly. Usually, I am not intimidated by a woman like I am with her. I am 18 years old, a grown adult, and I still feel that I am not the authority in this. How do I explain this without sounding like I am desperately trying to help the girls out?

_Take Prim's advice._

"When I was here a few minutes ago, I couldn't help but feel the wind blowing. Yeah I know, _you're an idiot_. But actually in the alley on the other wall, the wind isn't as rough and it's not so crowded." Prim, always a fast mover, is stacking her belongings and holding her hand out for me to help her up.

"Wait Prim." She says.

"What?" Prim quips. "My ears are starting to sting. I want to get out of the wind Katniss." She turns to me. "Thanks Peeta for so graciously offering your alleyway to us." She utters somewhat sarcastically.

"Fine." She scoffs. A defeated Katniss picks up her few belongings and puts her back straight. She is not going to show that she is embarrassed of how little she has. That's what I like about her. Never cowers, never ashamed.

We go around the front entrance, avoiding as many as we can. Then, I sit them against a wall with a window a few feet to their left. I tell them a final goodbye for the night and if they need food, or shelter, or a bathroom, or a person to talk to, just go to the back door and knock three times, no more, no less.

Now that I have my foot on the bottom step of the 'Pursue Katniss Staircase,' I am not going back down now.

* * *

The bakery is two stories; my father had it designed in the 80s specifically with 3 bedrooms and two bathrooms above the bakery floor below. My parents didn't expect me; I wasn't planned. So I had to share a room with Luke until he left for college. Luke is married to a woman from Albany, with long blonde hair and the brightest blue eyes I have ever seen. They met in College when he was 20 and got married two and a half years after. They live outside of New York City, where his computer programming job is. Three years of marriage later, they are expecting their first baby in May.

My brother-less bedroom window conveniently gives me a strained view of the girls on the street. I leave them alone basically the whole time, just going to take their mugs and put them in the dishwasher so I can fill them again. Three days of this pass, and now I am upstairs changing my pants because I had spilled cinnamon butter on them. I put my legs through a pair of corduroy blue pants as I look out the window. Prim is leaving in the direction of the kitchen, a homeless shelter that helps give food and hygiene things to the needy, with obvious struggle from Katniss. Katniss doesn't like going with the system, she is a rebel some could say.

I remember her being absent from the English class we shared in our junior year, for counselor appointments. After a week of her absence in that class, I excused myself from class and wandered the hallways, purposefully going past the 3 rooms which held the counselors' offices, and she wasn't there. But as I walked past one of the offices during one of our passing periods later that day, I heard her explaining why she wasn't there for her appointments. The door was cracked just enough to see Brisby's light brown hair and hear her words, but Katniss was a quiet girl. She never raised her voice.

That's why I feel bad for Prim when Katniss is pulling on her sleeve to stay with her. Katniss doesn't like to get help from anyone, especially not a place that supplies food and shelter to specific ones with that need.

I know she has gone there a few times. When I helped down there for my high school required community service hours, the cook there named Sae talked about her coming in regularly. I liked that I was helping the community but I also desperately wanted to catch a glimpse of her while I ladled hot soup into bowls. She didn't make an appearance that week.

When she showed up at my front porch, it almost was a piece of luck. And now, for her sister to leave her alone, I knew this would be my chance. Its lunchtime and the sun is partly out, the wind blowing against the brick of the bakery.

Usually, I work through my lunch break because that's when the most customers come, but instead I am standing right in front of the bakery door facing the direction of where she is. Moving forward to a few feet away from her, I stand shifting my weight from one leg to the other, waiting for her to look up. She doesn't.

So I start the conversation. "Hey. I was just wondering," I say dragging my words, "if you need anything?" I ask, waiting for a response. After a minute she answers.

"Somewhere to live would be nice. A job. A mother. A living father." She laughs sadly, telling me without looking up from her hands grasping the down comforter I gave her from my bed. Acting almost as embarrassed to talk to me as I am to her, she whispers, "I don't know why I told you that." Her nervousness calms me. She pushes her bangs out of her face and rubs her hands together.

"Okay, I don't really know the response you are looking for, because when my grandmother died and people came up to me and said they were sorry about my loss and all that crap, it really didn't help. But I am still going to say, I am sorry about your situation."

She scowls with her eyebrows twisted in a knot, looking at her intertwined fingers. "I get that a lot."

"You understand that I will help you. Even if it's the little stuff. I hope I made that clear."

"Everyone is just sorry," she continues, obviously ignoring what I said. "That's it. It's their way to politely look down at me like I'm scum."

"I would never look down at you." I say. For emphasis, I crouch down and pull the corner of the blanket over my legs while scooting against the wall. We aren't even close to touching but I can feel the warmth radiating under the blanket. As I am looking parallel into her lidded eyes, I plead to her like she is a child, "I want to help you."

"You know I can't accept your help! Not after…" Her eyes widen like she has spoken forbidden words.

"After what?" I pacify.

"I think you should go back inside." She says without hesitancy. I am conflicting between a retreat of the mission or scooting over next to her, getting closer. But I am consonant with the fact that I really want to hear her talk to me.

"Well, I can share with you a few reasons why I wouldn't do that. First, I have all the time I want, it's my break and I work for my parents. Second, I know this blanket is fairly warm, so I am not going to freeze and third, I especially want to know who you are. The only thing I know for sure about you is that you're stubborn and like to wear a braid in your hair."

She looks up to me and I see the galaxies and universes hidden away in her stare. Her eyes are muted grey colors that are so sporadic that I want to just gape over her face inches away. Her nose crinkles as the blush starts to spread by her ears, intensifying the freckles speckled across her cheeks.

"Why me? If I were you, I wouldn't care to listen."

"And guess what. You aren't me." I explain with a smile. She smiles back at me for the first time and I am kicking myself for not talking with her sooner.

But with some hesitation, she starts. I've listened to many of our visitors' life stories and struggles, but none of them intrigue me as much as hers has. She begins with her father and how he loved to sing everywhere he went. She moves to the time they shared in the woods and how inseparable they were when she was little. I knew he died in a car accident, but I never knew it was a collision caused from a drunken man speeding through a red light. Then to their family's starvation caused by her Mother's emptiness and inability to hold a job and Katniss' abstinence to getting help from anyone.

It's a basic rundown of her life that I could hear from a close friend of hers. She is sharing it with me and it's nothing that would be exciting to the average person. But, I would pay her to read me a textbook just to listen to her voice. So I don't complain. She shares nothing too personal, nothing extreme.

I had these high expectations of her sharing every secret she had to me and her being completely comfortable with me. She pauses in-between each transition of the subject and awkwardly continues to wring her hands.

"Someone helped me survive many years before. He showed me that suffering can be worth it. That's what I stopped myself from saying before."

"Who was it?"

"It was you." As soon as she says that, it's almost as if I can see a physical weight being lifted off her shoulders, like the world transformed into a liquid and pours down her arms into a puddle of compressed pressure. She is talking about me and how I threw the bread. Probably one of the few times she accepted any help willingly. She sits up straight, more alert than she has been with me and continues what she is saying. "The bread. I know you probably forgot about that, but you saved my family that day. Everyone else didn't care. Another poor girl starving in the streets."

She has that look in her eyes like she did in that rain all those years ago, almost as if there is a gloss over her face. Her teeth are chattering with the cold and it takes every ember in my body to stop myself from scooting over, holding her face in my hands and kissing her right here.

"Katniss, why do you look so relieved?"

She stops, and I know that I have crossed some imaginary boundary, like the words are choking her and she doesn't have a single breath more to cross the finish line. "Peeta, I'm going to find my sister."

It's funny how she says the sentence, it is almost like she thinks I'm interrogating her and she needs her lawyer of a sister present to answer future questions. Lifting the blanket off and folding her half over my legs, her comment is a clear sign of 'don't follow me'. So instead, I watch as she enters into the kitchen with her effortless walk probably striking an effortless conversation with Sae.

I stay there leaned against the wall and repeatedly hit the back of my head to the wall. Closing my eyes, I rewind our conversation and I don't see any fatal mistakes in my dialogue, only her beautiful freckled face comes to mind. Her smell almost lingers off the spot she sat last and I cling to it as I wait with the stuff. It would be a horrible pitiful thing if someone stole a homeless person's belongings.

I play on my phone and text Hersh and occasionally glance from the front door of the kitchen to the bakery to the Candy Store. The shelter stands tall with its two stories similar to the setup of the bakery, where the house is above. I hope Sae's extra bedrooms accommodate to some of the less fortunate.

Hersh obviously gets the text I send, and right on time, at 1:30, he is bolting out the door for his break. I told him that I was sitting next to Katniss having a conversation and I was with her stuff on the street, when it hit me._ She must have some trust for me if she put me in charge of her belongings._

As he approaches, he mocks how I am sitting, with a goofy smirk covering my face and the blanket tightly grasped in my fist.

He is the only person who still hung on to me from High School. Even when he found out that I was being stupid with Jake and Daniel and Nathan, the boys who sweated the bad boy egos and I got in trouble with, he knew the truth of the situation. The guys and I had had the idea to prank people on the street parallel to mine. They were a year older than I, and they had different intentions and definitions for a prank.

The three of my friends, beside Hersh, lived in the seam in a shanty house about ten houses, actually exactly ten, from her. I liked their friendship, but I liked the fact that I had an excuse to drive or bike or walk by her house every once in a while much more.

We did stupid stuff the night we got in trouble, spray painting the gutters black over the previous matching paint, let the air out of the kids' bikes, took the garbage from some of the garbage cans and put it by the Shops' front doors. But when they had the idea of egging the old grouchy lady's car who worked at the paint store, that's when we got arrested. I stayed in the car as the driver when Indigo's husband barged out the door with a handgun and a frown on his face. We made the terminal mistake of egging the lieutenant's wife's car. He yelled for us to stop as the two of the three who threw the eggs fled, leaving Daniel and me for the blame.

He cuffed us and said he was just going to speak with our parents and wouldn't press charges. My mom was so mad that her face completely reddened all the way to the tips of her ears. When the man left and Dad had gone back to bed, she slapped me with the back of her hand on my cheek. I could swear that she bruised my jaw bone. All I remember was a lethargic feeling as she repeatedly hit me. I woke up on the hardwood floor covered in a cold sweat. The welt covering my left cheek went from the bottom of my jaw to my eyelid. I crawled to my bedroom and slept for the rest of the day, until Hersh ditched school at lunch break to sit with me and hold an ice pack to my face.

My mother is much better. She jokes with me and got over the fact that I am not the girl that her and Dad wanted. I'm pretty fantastic, and there are days where I have to remind myself of that to avoid the deep blinding sadness that forces me into my bedroom with the blanket over my head.

I hadn't eaten for at least 12 hours because I didn't want to and the thought of opening my mouth and tugging on the swelled skin made me black out again. It hurt worse than when the kid from Maple View chicken winged me in a wrestling match and pulled my arm out of my socket. I wanted Katniss there to console me, or for her sister to drag her into the bakery so I could hand her a cookie and Katniss could ask me what happened. But she never talked to me in the bakery, or anywhere for that fact.

I was hopeless and hurting. The physical pain was excruciating, throbbing from both ends of my face. But I couldn't help but feel the omnipresent dull ache of my Parents disapproval. She apologized for what she did to me, saying that she was on depression medicine that made her become irrational. My parents behind closed doors said they should have punished me without such palpable consequences, obviously the fact that I have a puffy face from the multiple blows to my face. From the physical pain, to the heartache, to the absence of love shown to me; I cried in front of my best friend that day.

He told me to buck up and be strong. It did help having someone to push me forward to keep going, but I sank into this general feeling of sadness. Especially when the boys I was with that night said it was my idea and the town believed it, I knew I needed some better friends that would show me loyalty: I stuck with Hersh.

So when he stands in front of me, kicking the blanket off my legs, I kick him in the shin in an act of affection.

"Ouch Peet!" He sits on his heels trying to fit his phone in his pocket. "You finally did it. I saw her walking into the shelter with your sweatshirt on. What did you do you filthy animal?" He asks with a smirk, suppressing a wink. Pervert.

"It's not like that. I gave them some stuff to keep warm." I explain flatly.

"Uh- huh." He says completely unconvinced. "Is this an attempt to make her fall in love with you?" He swoons at me.

"Helping. That's all."

"Kinky. Wait, hold on." He maneuvers his phone out of his pocket and pushes all kinds of buttons on the calculator app as if he is making a mathematical breakthrough and then looks up at me. "I just did the calculations, and I've been able to determine that you're full of crap."

He is right. It's a desperate attempt to win her affections, and it goes back to my parents who are probably wondering what I am doing, ditching work because I like this girl who maybe doesn't even like me.

"But really, I peeked out the window a couple of minutes ago and you were talking to her. Almost crapped your pants I'm guessing. Get this, what if she likes you too?" He raises his eyebrows twice; as he always does when he is trying to get me to think.

I can think of all the times when I was younger, imagining the first time I held her hand, hugged her, kissed her. But I always was the one to start it. What if?

I can see it now. Her walking back with the sleeves of my sweatshirt flapping over her hands with a rare smile on her face because she finally got with Peeta Mellark, the Baker's boy, and she puts her head in my lap as I play with her hair. Her falling asleep and turning over onto her back with the imprint from my corduroy pants on her cheek.

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Please review.

-Brittany


	2. Chapter 2

I ask repeatedly if they want anything else during her stay at _Alley de Mellark_. She rejects me every time. If I am not out helping the family, my Dad is out offering buttered bread and cinnamon rolls in the mornings. He always shows special concern to Prim, and to Katniss.

It's not that I am not curious about what happened to her Mother and why they were kicked out or what changed. Is she even alive? If she died, they would be basically orphans, beside the fact that Katniss would legally be of age to take custody over Prim.

How is Katniss not working? In High School, she took every class offered at the highest level. Hersh had her in his chemistry class, and apparently she was always the one to ruin the curve. What she lacks in charisma, she excels with intelligence. If the one hiring her were to look at her appearance, he would mostly say that she needs a shower, and some clean clothes.

We have only had family working behind the display shelf, bakery tradition. So as I knead the dough for sourdough bread after my mother is asleep, I pop the question.

"Have you seen Katniss outside? She has been there for weeks."

"I have. There are a few new additions to the family recently. Good thing we are burning the midnight oil to give them something to eat!" He exclaims with this unusual excitement.

"Dad. I want to have Katniss work in the bakery on my shift. There would be no extra costs for another worker, just my wage goes to her- she works my time. She is smart enough to understand proportions and kind enough to deal with customers in the front and beautiful enough to match up to the Mellark characteristic and I think she would be a good addition-."

"Hey there. You are rambling and murdering the dough." Looking down, I see I have basically torn the dough into a million overstretched pieces. I grit my teeth as I attempt to mush it together again. There is enough time before he answers the question for me to put the dough into a pan to let rise.

As he takes a breath, I cringe. "You would have to ask Mom. She would like the idea that there wouldn't be any dip in profit, but we haven't had anyone work here that doesn't hold the Mellark name. Unless…" He nudges me in the shoulder, and I can feel the blush creeping on my cheeks.

This is true. When my Dad opened the bakery, it was just my parents and his two uncles. George died before I was born and Hank moved to the west coast, leaving my parents to man the shop.

What my Mom doesn't know is that she really is a smart girl. A smart girl who intensely loves her sister and would do anything to keep her safe. The woman I want to marry. Even if she isn't of elite status my Mom seems to crave in her children's spouses.

Really, this is true. In our town, there are the semi-slums and the wealthy; no in-between. My family is at the lower end of the wealthy, and Katniss's family is in the higher end of the slums, living on the outskirts of the older part of town.

Yes she didn't grow up on Main Street, and no she doesn't have blonde hair and blue eyes like what is the normal here. But my mother was a slum girl too, the blonde hair hides it, but her brown eyes don't.

"Very funny. Maybe someday. Right now Prim likes me more." I chuckle to myself as I wash my hands with droopy eyelids. "Speaking of my bride to be," I say quite sarcastically, "I'm going to check on them before I go to bed. It's supposed to be below freezing tonight. Anything you can think that I can do?"

"Actually." His face, similar to mine, takes on an inquisitive look. The wrinkles dipping around his mouth and on his forehead crunch together as he calculates the costs of what he is about to suggest. We have an honest relationship with each other. I am his last to be leaving the nest, (not planning on that for a while) with Rye and Luke either at college or married. He has known about my affection for Katniss since the very moment I caught sight of her across the school yard.

He rummages around the utility closet underneath the staircase. It's big enough for a small family to fit in comfortably, and we rarely ever go in there. It has surplus flour and sugar and spices that we won't need to get out for a few weeks because we just replaced our stock of supply. "Okay Peeta, don't get excited. But, maybe. They could sleep here? We can blow up a mattress and put it on the floor and it would be much warmer than if they slept out there."

I got to hand it to him. He usually isn't one to sneak something like this past Mom. But now that I think about it, she rarely is in the kitchen so she probably wouldn't even find them, especially if it's just for the night. If she did find out, I would rather spend a night in jail than receive the punishment from her. "It's risky. Do you think…?"

"We could make it work." My Dad actually has a soft spot for Prim more so than Katniss. She came into the bakery with her Dad when he was alive and she just had started kindergarten. The display glass would be covered in her little fingerprints from pointing at all the treats. Usually this would get him angry, but who wouldn't fall for her bright blue eyes and her pouty little lips?

Always, she said please and thank you to my Dad and had the biggest gaze switching from the pastries to her dad to mine. Her Dad would chuckle and buy a sugar cookie for her and a cinnamon roll with cream cheese frosting for himself. I think those were his favorite. The two Dads would make small talk as Prim ate her cookie carefully, licking the pink frosting off her fingers after she finished.

"Son." He snaps his fingers at me and I remember where I am. "Do you want to do this? It's almost eleven o'clock."

I smile really big and grab the broom out to sweep the flour off the floor where they are sleeping. There are bins and containers and tables and chairs stacked in a uniform pile in the middle. I push everything to the side, and can't help the gnawing feeling growing in the bottom of my stomach. Is this too much?

I fall asleep on the tiled floor with that thought.

I wake up sometime in the middle of the night with flour in my nose and a loud sneeze. As I cough through the dusted air and navigate in the dark, I pull the beaded chain on the light bulb above my head. Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I realize that the girls have been left outside all night. I jump up, quite literally, and hit my head on the sloped ceiling above me.

I am trying to see through my starry blackened vision. I can't find a wall to lean against as I try to regain my balance. The back of my head grazes a metal shelf, and I hold on. I really can't see. I stand there with my other hand on a table at waist height to even out my footing as the world spins.

I hope that I didn't wake anyone up upstairs. But really, how can they sleep knowing that there are people starving and freezing and depressed right outside our door? What kind of world is alright with leaving two teenage girls on the streets?

A few minutes pass and I can navigate myself to the door and through my thoughts. My Dad left the lights on in the downstairs kitchen, which is very unlike him. But on the center table, that is the size of about 4 card tables on stilts put together, is a pile of neatly folded blankets and pillows. Against the table is a blown air mattress that will easily fit both girls, and another. I smile at my Dad's actions and feel guilty that I slept through many hours of the night in a warm, uncomfortable room.

As quietly as I can, I finish. I fit the mattress in the closet and lay the blankets on, and fluff the pillows. It only takes about ten minutes, but it is a decent sleeping space in comparison to where they are now.

I don't know what to say to her this late into the night.

Before I know it, I am sitting at the bench next to the back door double knotting my shoe laces. It's a monotonous ritual. I grab my jacket that is lined with fur, and put both arms through and zip it up to my neck.

The girls sit on the side where there are no other sleepers, so no one will know that the Everdeen sisters are getting special treatment.

She hardly flinches when I approach, because she is asleep just how I would see from my bedroom window. I feel like a pervert watching her sleep from a distance. I don't know if it's physically possible to sleep with chattering teeth, but she is. A rosy red color covers her cheeks, along with the tip of her nose. Her legs are bare beside a pair of soaking pair of pants and her leather jacket and boots. The blanket is folded twice to keep Prim warm. Easily, the blanket could cover them both. She is the most selfless person I have ever known.

My breath forms white clouds around my mouth while I decide if I should wake them up or let them sleep. Outside the clouds have been dropping it's first snow storm- with about 3 inches of snow already.

I walk past Katniss and shake Prim's leg softly, but my cold fingers against her skin are enough to make her stir.

"What?" She says with a thick voice.

Her sister stays as she is, and I lean down to her ear to whisper. "It's Peeta; do you want to sleep inside? Sweetheart, it's cold." She nods half asleep and slowly lifts her head up from Katniss' lap.

"Can you wake her up?" she looks in Katniss' direction and I nod. I show Prim to where she is going to sleep. She grins when I open the door and the warm air touches her skin. I had turned out the lights so my mom wouldn't get suspicious if she were to wake up.

"Take two steps forward, past the stairs, turn right and follow the wall until you feel a door. It's a push door, don't try to pull." I whisper. She nods and I don't blame her for not wanting to talk. The air is so frigid it is like I take a breath and all moisture in my lungs freezes.

She blindly navigates through the dark and I listen for the door to open to signal she found it. Turning the corner, I see Katniss opening her eyes.

She is patting all around sloppily in the dark trying to feel for Prim. She grits her teeth in pain as her numb fingers hit the concrete. "Where did you take her?" She begins with confusion. "Prim?"

"Hey. Hey. Katniss. She is inside. You can go inside too."

"What?" She whines.

She can't even keep her teeth from chattering, and the tips of her ears are turning blue. Her movements are slow and labored, and she seems confused. It's almost like she can't focus her eyes on one thing.

"I'm sorry." I mouth. "Can I please get you inside before you go into severe hypothermia?" She looks down and slowly touches her fingers to her goose bumps that have crawled up her arms. Tilting her head against the wall to look to me, I know I have to get her inside as fast as possible.

It's like she's drunk. She's not even putting up a fight when I push my hands underneath the bottom of her boney thighs and scoop her up. Her arms fall to her sides weakly as her face leans against my chest. I bend down to grab her jacket and drape it over her bare arms.

I can't get over how cold she feels. It's like a big block of ice that can bend and rest her head against me without noticing. I smile, knowing that I am doing the right thing.


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks for the reviews :)

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Opening the doorknob is a struggle with her in my arms. I am sure I hit her head against the doorpost, but she doesn't flinch. The air inside hits my face and I groan inwardly. It feels good.

Everything looks the same as when I brought in Prim a few minutes before, but now I have to guide myself. Carefully and slowly I lay Katniss next to Prim, the air mattress sinking as I set her tiny weight on.

Her body doesn't even conform to the bed. She just lays there with frigid limbs, her joints frozen together. She doesn't look good at all. Her clothes are wet and I don't want to strip her, but it doesn't seem like I have a choice. She's not coherent to anything outside of her mind... if she's conscious. That scares me.

So I wake up Prim. She is dry and warm and happy to help. She tells me to go upstairs to grab a pair of sweatpants that would fit. Her other intention is that she is going to strip her sister's pants so I don't have to. If I had a hypothermic sister that was unconscious with a male stranger happy to take her pants off, I wouldn't let that slide either. Prim is a good caretaker and protector- I respect her for that.

As I go up the stairs, my loud footsteps step on every creak in the wood. I am not very concerned about waking up my parents, because I would have an excuse ready in no time- just helping the people outside.

I would be dead if my Mother found them occupying our home.

Prim has her leg out of one side of her pants and I willingly help her with the other leg. I am careful to keep my eyes on Prim's face, not letting myself wander over Katniss's body. The tips of my fingers run against her thigh.

"She is really cold. My Mother said that when she is treating patients at the hospital with hypothermia, they run warm fluids, but we don't have those. Do you have any heated blankets or rice bags? The ones that you put in the microwave?" I nod as I pull the dry pants over her backside. I have those in the cupboard right outside this door. I would use the heated bags for my sore muscles after my wrestling matches.

I pop one in the microwave, it's about the size of a notebook and as thick as a dictionary. "Hey Prim" I whisper in the crack between the door frame and the door. Tossing my phone to her, I add, "Look up where is the best place to put this. Google it."

She unlocks my phone and with a trip up the stairs again, I hear a door open at the end. For some stupid reason I ignore it as I run to grab a warm sweatshirt and a big comforter off of Rye's bed. He goes to Clarkson University 100 miles north and doesn't come to visit besides on his breaks between quarters. He left a few weeks ago.

"What are you doing up?" I stop what I'm doing and face the voice. My Mother stands behind with a crinkle between her eyebrows, probably wondering why I am being so loud. My shoulders tense as I think of a reason. I thought it would come easier, I hate lying to her. But for Katniss' sake, I will.

"Uhh… I am helping some of the people outside. It is below freezing and snowing." She looks at me with squinting eyes, trying to believe my story. It is true. They are people from the outside, hiding in our downstairs supply closet.

"Okay, I am just going to check downstairs." I turn my back away from her and open my eyes wide.

The door is open. Prim and Katniss are in the closet right by the door. The rice bag is in the microwave.

My heart starts to beat into my throat as I jump to my feet, thankful for the taller ceiling, and bolt down the stairs skipping every other step.

"What are you doing?" She asks.

"Forgot… to shut the back door…" I turn to my left and pretend to push the door shut and pivot to the closet door and whisper for Prim to shut it and stay quiet. She understands how serious I am about them not getting caught and slowly closes the door with tiptoe volume. I dart to the microwave and open and close it for the timer to turn off.

Her sluggish footfalls down the flight of stairs allow me time to take a few deep breaths. I take a quick look over the dark bakery and there is nothing unusual to the eye, only the light peering under the door. _Crap._

Taking one long stride, I open the door only an inch and mouth "Light… off!" She gets it and pulls the cord turning it off.

I slick my hair back pointlessly and begin to pop my knuckles then shove them in my back pockets.

She puts both feet on the bakery floor and switches the light switch on. With a quick walk around she doesn't see anything suspicious. "Peeta. Really. What are you doing?"

"Couldn't sleep?" I tell her with a smirk and a crooked jaw.

"Uh-huh." She says unconvinced. "Just be quiet. I'm going to go sleep on the couch. Your Dad is snoring." I nervously laugh because now I can hear the rhythmic loud snores coming from above. "Goodnight." She says flatly.

"Goodnight."

I wait for her to shut the door before opening the door to Prim.

Prim lays there completely conformed to her sister; I can hardly tell the difference between them. She lets out a breath it looks like she has been holding. Handing her the big pack, she puts it between Katniss's legs. I put one under her body and hold the other to the back of her neck.

"It says we are supposed to put it in between her legs, and to keep her head warm." I think it makes her uncomfortable talking about her sister's body, but I don't care where I have to put them.

"I will hold her from this side and you the other." Prim suggests. I agree and suppress the grin forming on my lips. Prim lies to the back of her, Katniss's back against her stomach. I slowly lay down on my side, our foreheads about a foot apart. I hold the back of her neck with the pack between our skins, and rub the hair off her forehead.

It's strange to be so physically close to someone who's so distant. Katniss might as well be back on the street, or in her bed at home, or the moon right now, she'd be no harder to reach. It's a different kind of loneliness.

Prim hands me my phone and I push the home button, 3:14. She gets up and rearranges the blankets over her sister and I tuck them under, cocooning her tightly with multiple blankets. Her head, which is covered by the hood of my sweatshirt, and part of her neck are the only things showing. I put my hand to her forehead and she already is beginning to warm.

On that Saturday night, with about 12 inches and 10 layers between us, Katniss and I, and Prim, share a bed.

I wake up a little over two hours later with the intention of baking bread or frosting cookies, as I always do at 5:30. But I can't help smiling when I realize that I am sleeping next to a woman, who thankfully is warm to touch. I have my arms strewed over her and my hand is lying on Prim's cheek. They don't look to have any intention to get up yet, so I let them sleep in, and I do too. It's a Sunday morning- the bakery is closed. Rearranging my arms so they partially wrap around my body, I attempt to give her some space but she pulls me closer, unwilling to let go. She smells of smoke, sadness and sweat.

I think that when we get up, I am going to make a big breakfast.

I hear light metal clanging, so quiet that I wouldn't hear it if I wasn't already listening. Happily, I don't have to worry about my mother for this morning. The last Sunday of every month, my mother and her two sisters meet up at their brother's house- a two and a half hour drive away-to spend the day together and play a game called Pinochle. It's been a tradition for my Mom since her Dad died. She usually leaves around now, so it must be her looking for the keys hanging on the key ring by the back door.

Rye is on campus, and Luke is married and moved away, leaving only my Dad sleeping upstairs and me with two young girls beside me, hidden in the supply closet.

This is getting sketchier as it goes.

The door clicks shuts and a minute later, the engine rolls over on our Camry and my mother drives away without any goodbyes.

Quite a few minutes later I get up. I never fall back asleep; I can't with how my heart is fluttering its wings and readying to fly right out of my chest. I love her. We have only spoken few times, all occurring in the last three months. She hasn't even thought of me or intentionally looked at me like I have to her. She roams my dreams freely in jeans and black converse, with her braid flopping against her white t-shirt. My hand draws, doodles, and paints her on canvas, absent-mindedly on class notebooks when I went to high school. She never leaves. A friendly ghost having no reason to materialize.

I have to continually remind myself that love is a two-way street.

Now I lay in a physical bed, next to her. Am I being ridiculous? I do so much and receive very little in response.

I hesitate before running my hand over her cheek with the back of my fingers.

She jumps at my touch and I panic. Her eyes widen and her nostril flares like waking a bear out of hibernation. I grab at the doorknob and run over my feet with how fast I am moving.

I think she is growling but I can't be sure. As I crouch behind the display counter, I can hear her hissing like a rabid animal- that's for sure. Her arms are crossed, holding onto the opposite arm. She is making big uncomfortable footsteps toward me, as I can see through the display glass. That is where I make my fatal mistake.

_If I can see her, she can see me._

"PEETA MELLARK!" Even as she says it in anger, I love the way she says my name.

As she approaches, I pull my feet under me, so I'm bracing myself in the fetal position on the floor. I don't really know what to expect. Either she is going to kick me in the gut or scream or just walk out the house without a word.

She moves closer, slowly with the quietest footsteps, like she is floating. She bends down to me and the socks filled with rice explode when they drop from between her arms.

Not expected.

"What the-" She says in disgust. The rice blankets the floor in a bright white sheet. She just looks at me and to the floor repeatedly, trying to piece things together.

"Do you remember anything about last night?" I smile, remembering what Prim and I did to heal her and bring her back to life.

Her hair is tucked under the hood, loose hairs frazzled around her face. Her fingers are her normal olive colored, not the unnatural bluish-red, her cheeks like ordinary. Her body straightens and I know that she takes it a completely different way, looking down at my clothing on her body.

"Why don't I remember?" She pleads.

"Well you were really cold so I took Prim and you and put you in the closet."

"Oh. So this is what you do." She patronizes. "Wait for the girl to get desperate, and do as you please?" She throws the ball totally in left field, and I catch it without a mitt.

"What are you talking about?" I'm grasping a handful of my shirt and I feel helpless. Does she know what happened? Does she know that she almost went into moderate hypothermia if it weren't for Prim and I's joint body heat to her? "Whatever you think happened," I start carefully, "didn't."

She takes a deep breath as she closes her eyes like she can just bid for a different setting with her shut eyes and wishful thinking. "Then, why am I wearing these?" She pulls the hood off and her once hidden hair is a true matted mess.

"Please just sit at a table in the front and I will explain."

"No." She demands.

"Yes. Be quiet! Prim had a stressful night." I walk past her before I can see her expression and nearly slip on the dry rice under my bare feet. "And can you grab the broom? You made a mess."

I go upstairs and grab my mother's brush out of her bathroom and two mugs for hot chocolate. As I rip the packets to hot chocolate mix, I hear the rice pouring into the garbage can. She's a worker. I grin at myself. I hold the two warm mugs with both hands and shove the brush in my back pocket.

I don't really want to tell her to make herself look better, even if it's a weak attempt of her brushing her shower-voided hair into a braid down her back. So placing the brush in the downstairs public bathroom before talking to her is the choice I make.

"Do you need to use the bathroom? We have one down here." She nods and walks around the corner.

She walks out and looks better. She must have splashed water on her face and that's when I get the idea that I can ask her if she wants a shower. I can get her clothes from our garage that were my mother's so they can fit her. My Mom has a baker for a husband; I can't say I was surprised that her high school wardrobe doesn't fit.

After I thank her for picking up the rice, and explaining what happened last night, I suggest her getting a shower. I know she feels uncomfortable. But really, how could she have found a way to bathe in the last month or so? Are there showers at Sae's?

She settles with the idea and I show her to my bathroom. Thank God that I am a clean person. The shower has pine scented soaps and nothing for women but she says she doesn't care if she smells like me. My body shivers at the comment but I ignore it.

I show her how to work the shower and then she shoves me out.

I go downstairs and grab some risen dough and melt butter and cinnamon sugar. One of the first recipes I learned from my Dad was something called Monkey bread. It's a giant cinnamon roll with pecans. So I roll the dough into golf balls size balls and roll them in the melted butter and then through the dry ingredients. The Bundt pan is filled with them and soon enough they go into the oven. I make three omelets with what I find downstairs and put Prim's in the fridge for when she wakes up.

My Dad comes down and tells me to be quieter because this is his only day to sleep in. "Why is the shower going?" I raise my eyebrows and he gets the idea. "Both girls are here?"

"Yeah. Katniss needed a shower."

"Teach her some of the basics to baking. If you want her to work here, give her basic lessons." He starts his way back up the stairs, "Don't do anything stupid." He warns.

I run barefoot through the snow to the garage and go through some of the bins until I find some clothes that could fit her and even a shirt for Prim.

She has been in the shower for over twenty minutes so I go to my room and change into clean clothes for myself- dark jeans and a loose green t-shirt from Jason Mraz's tour.

I am walking by the bathroom door when I hear her.

_Raindrops keep falling on my head._

_But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turning red_

_Crying's not for me_

Katniss is singing in the shower. Her voice isn't that strained ugly rough noise that comes out of my mouth when I sing. It's velvet escaping her lips and I want to turn off the world and listen. The bread in the oven can burn if it means I can eavesdrop.

_It won't be long till happiness_

_Steps up to greet me_


End file.
